


to be fearful of the night

by Helasdottir



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, art as a vehicle for emotional expression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helasdottir/pseuds/Helasdottir
Summary: Spock lacks the active vocabulary to engage emotionally with those closest to him, an obvious consequence of his upbringing. It may not have been an issue while emotional suppression was his main goal, the essential component in maintaining control over his sensibilities, but things are different now.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 5
Kudos: 115





	to be fearful of the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThereBeWhalesHere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeWhalesHere/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Liss! I know this is only a drabble, but I hope you enjoy it! It's a lot of Spock reflecting on his past and a tiny touch of Jim at the end ♥

Words are sometimes hard to come by. They flow easily enough when the subject matter is purely logical, when all he needs to voice are objective facts or plausible theories. Even the playful quips shared with the crew, once stiff and unnatural, now flow freely when provoked – most notably by the doctor and one miss Uhura.

In fact, Spock realizes, the situations where words fall short for him are painfully specific. He lacks the active vocabulary to engage emotionally with those closest to him, an obvious consequence of his upbringing. It may not have been an issue while emotional suppression was his main goal, the essential component in maintaining control over his sensibilities, but things are different now.

Decades of silent suffering went by before he began to accept his humanity, and more years proved necessary for taking the first steps towards true balance between logic and passion. While it is not surprising to Spock that he lacks the tools to unite what his captain might call _heart and mind_ , it is nonetheless frustrating to be rendered speechless, insecure of his ability, unsure of what reactions may appear in response to an unskilled attempt at voicing deeper connections. There is no clear data to draw from, and he is still Vulcan – he needs one foot on the steady ground of logic.

One thing is clear: spoken words cannot be retracted. Spock knows his emotions run too deep, burn too hot, and being overly forward with humans may intimidate rather than reassure them. The risk involved in baring his soul, even or especially to his closest friends, is far too great. That is what drives Spock to seek alternatives, to express himself through art and music, to draw more in weeks than he has since stardate 1051.8.

He feels a pull towards the mountains of his youth, painting his memories of the vast expanses that felt empty despite the life on and around them. As a child, he had once wondered if they felt as lonely as he did. Now he knows mountains cannot feel, but he still chooses to use them as a medium through which to express his overwhelming solitude. They rise from the canvas with the sharp, contrasting colors of what was his home, driving the desire to belong even deeper into his being.

Other places and moments in his past demand to be externalized. He paints his mother in her garden, collecting fresh tea leaves, ever the calm lake in the center of a storm. He paints Michael and how he lost her, again and again. He paints Sarek, both man and shadow, attempting to come to terms with a lifetime of conflicted attachments.

Art helps him process, it helps him heal. Some emotions Spock can accept and either embrace or release, others he analyzes and then pushes deep within the confines of his mind, hoping to confront them only when absolutely necessary.

The landscapes change over the weeks, from the hot red sands of Vulcan to the warm golden sun of Earth. Spock does not set out to imagine his crew in their civilian lives, but he nonetheless ends up with a domestic scene of Lieutenant Sulu and his daughter conversing on a wooden bench at a public park. It seems improper to keep a moment Spock himself has no claim over, and so he delivers it to the Lieutenant’s quarters as an anonymous gift.

It is well received, if Sulu’s bright smile during their next shift is any indication.

More such moments appear in his paintings over the coming months, even as Spock becomes more attuned to his own identity. Some are too intimate to keep, and so repeated instances of secret gifted artwork become common for the bridge crew. Others are too intimate to show, and so they are kept well hidden in his quarters.

Well hidden, that is, until he is drawn from a work in progress to assist an emergency containment breach in the lab. Until he realizes there is far too much work to be done for him to arrive in timely fashion and hide the new painting before his scheduled chess match with the captain, for which Spock truly believes he should have insisted on the mess hall.

Spock does not know how to raise a boundary he had no need for in the past year. He arrives in his quarters to find Jim already there, seemingly mesmerized by an image of himself – not nearly completed, the colors far from blended over the basic skeleton drawing that holds them together. The image is not physically explicit, because Spock himself could not bear to draw such a thing and look his captain in the eye, but it _is_ emotionally raw.

He remembers that day too clearly. Jim, bent out of shape in an attempt to save as many people as he could from a hostile living planet, kneeling by a wounded crewman. Words of encouragement shared with honest belief in the best outcome, followed by unmistakable grief for the fallen even after the success of their evacuation back to the ship. Spock had learned to admire Jim’s loyalty to the crew, but in that moment, he could feel it in his core.

“A rather grim subject, Mr. Spock,” Jim finally speaks up – daring to break the silence before the proper words for an apology can be mustered. “I would hope you might see me in a more pleasant light. Even Bones got himself a peach tree, why am I the sad one?”

No questions about why Spock painted, why he gifted his art anonymously. Nothing invasive, because Jim knows when to push and when to tread lightly, and suddenly Spock feels a touch more daring.

“Captain, you should not judge an artist’s view of his subject from a single piece.” Warning sirens blare internally, but this is the time to push caution aside. “It may also be rash to interpret a painting before it is complete.”

“There are others, then?” The question comes with that smile, the one Jim wears when he thinks he’s about to win.

“Indeed.”

Spock does not need to tell Jim that it is his warmth represented as the bright sun, his depth in the greenery of Earth’s landscapes. He does not need to expose the enormity of this feeling he can’t yet name. What he needs is simply what he gets: they sit to filter through his drawings, Jim’s fingers brush his, and the captain’s quarters remain empty long after his bed time.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on twitter @xhelasdottir.


End file.
